nted for, and the rest quietly, but in a determined
manner, pulled up within fifty yards of him, and raised their rifles, he
was conscious of a sudden sinking of the heart.

Grenville continued, nevertheless, to ply his six-shooters, and the
instant the Mormon leader gave the word to his platoon to fire, threw
himself forward on his face with the speed of light, escaping by a
miracle almost unharmed.

Springing quickly to his feet, he deliberately emptied the remaining
chambers of his revolvers into the approaching Mormons at point-blank
range, as they rushed forward with their guns clubbed, and then, seizing
his own rifle by the muzzle, he swung the weapon round his head and
prepared to sell his life dearly.

Though bleeding from a wound in the shoulder and one in the fleshy part
of the neck, Grenville felt little the worse, as the last-named had
fortunately failed to touch the artery.

As he stood bravely waiting the onslaught of his remaining foes, our
hero was dimly conscious that the air was growing dark and very still,
and that the storm clouds were creeping up again in ponderous and
wicked-looking masses; but ere he had time to reflect on the probable
result of this, the Mormons flew at him like hounds on a stag at bay.
Blow after blow was given and received, our hero at length getting in a
sweep with his weapon that drove one opponent headlong into the awful
chasm beneath, into which he fell with a horrid shriek. This blow,
however, cost Grenville a nasty knock on the side of the head, and as
his enemies redoubled their violence, he felt that the end was very
near; the bridge, the sky, the veldt, were turning round and round with
him, and he realised that his spirit was indeed about to speed its
eternal flight; and now, as he made one glorious final effort to
maintain his post, a glittering streak of steel whizzed past his face,
and the nearest foe fell backwards, grasping in the death agony at the
razor edge of the Zulu spear imbedded in his throat, whilst, almost
simultaneously, a second of the attacking party was despatched to the
shades by a similar weapon from another hand, and poor Grenville's
sinking heart was cheered by the war-cry of Amaxosa and the cool voice
of his brother Myzukulwa--

"Let the Inkoos load his rifle," said the latter, "and leave these low
people to us."

The remaining assailants now turned tail and fairly ran for it. Too
late! As well might they seek to outstrip the wind as